Pagewalker (10 page)

“How much?” I asked. I reached down deep into
my pockets. Just in that moment I realised I had no money. It was
the material pocket this could feel the stitch to that gave it away
really. Even if I had any coins it would have been sterling and not
the currency used in Northland. I patted my pockets and looked up
hopelessly.

“Oh, nice try.” The barmaid said as she
lifted the pint back over to her side of the well varnished, thick
oaken bar again. She must have seen my face flush red with
embarrassment because she aimed her gaze towards the musicians. “If
you have any rhythm you can sing for you supper, otherwise your
more than welcome back when you have some coin to part with.”

Over by the musicians sat a bodhran, larger
than one usually used in bars and pubs in Ireland. This one was
much larger. I was sure it would have played the same. Maybe harder
to hold and I would have to run my hand further and faster up and
down the skin on the inside but surely the same idea. Luckily I had
taught myself to play the bodhran a few years before. I had gone
through an identity crisis of sorts. Being from Newtownards, the
12
^th
of July celebrations were held there a few times.
So marching loyalist bands were common. I didn’t like that music,
or scene at all, I felt no connection to it or pride, despite being
an Ards’ boy and brought up in a Presbyterian household. I
preferred the skills played and the good feel around traditional
Irish music. So as a drummer I felt the need to learn the bodhran!
I was fascinated with pipe bands and the side drummers there. But
that’s neither here or there. There was only a bodhran sitting by
the corner nook of this tavern. Not a side drum.

I made my way over to the musicians. One played a
fiddle. A large man, wearing a rather fine tweed suit. A little
snug for him as his belly hung out under the shirt and the
waistcoat he wore. Maybe the suit was bought years before because
it looked worn and tattered. He had a large ginger moustache that
rested and covered the butt end of the fiddle under his double
chin. He had kind eyes however and invited me to his left hand side
by looking at me, then down to the drum. Beside him was a very
skinny man. Like a human stick insect. His skeletal form lent
itself perfectly to the tiny tin whistle he held between his thin
bluish lips on his grey stubble covered gaunt looking, long face.
He wore a thin skinny, tight fitting shirt under a matching
waistcoat. His trousers matched and had leather, unworn knee
patches. This must have been for comfort as his long, twig like
legs kept crossing and alternating between each song. He didn’t
look up from the ground as I joined the trio. To his right again
was another man playing the accordion. Much older than the other
two. He wore an apron from what I could see. He was of average size
and build apart from yet another large belly. His apron just about
stretched over the front. He was holding and playing an accordion
styled instrument. Two wooden handles with a leather spring
interior. The sound was identical to an accordion we would know but
when pushed it played a chorus or chord sound and when pulled
played a single note. He had large boots on clean and as black as
his pupils, shining his reflection in them as he played. He had a
long grey beard and laughter lines behind his small circular
spectacles that hung onto the tip of his nose like blades of grass
on the lip of a cliff. He too smiled as I sat and stomped his foot
to the jig they played. I picked up what I thought was a bodhran
and held it as one. The three men looked at me with confusion. As
if they had never seen anyone hold a drum like this. A murmur of
amusement came from some of the patrons who had turned on their
stools to view the newcomer. The busty worker behind the bar mimed
an impression of me playing the drum on my knees like bongos. I
felt that if I were to sing for my drink and more importantly gain
favour, in turn aiding me to find information of my wife’s
whereabouts. If I were to do that I would need to put on a
show.

I looked around the table for something to
use as a tipper. All I could find was metal cutlery. I looked some
more for a beater or a tipper but nothing useful was on the table.
As it turned out it was under it. I looked under the table to see
Tessa chewing on a wooden spoon, or at least what once resembled
one. I puller the stick from her mouth and wiped it on my trousers.
Both ends were a little jagged so I ground both ends hard against
the stone floor. Rounding the ends off and getting rid of the
splinters. Once it resembled a beater that I knew I raised it to
the skin. The trio continued to play as I matched the rhythm of the
accordion player’s foot to my own. After listening to a few bars of
the tune I began to play. I kept is simple at first, just
accompanying the jig with a ¾ time rhythm. I began to feel more
confident and noticed more and more patrons turning towards us,
stopping conversations in favour of listening to the tune. The
melody was familiar. It over time turned into 4/4 time and reminded
me of something I knew quite well. Continuing to play the band and
myself were in great spirits. We played louder and faster! People
began to get up and dance, swinging each other by the arms around
the floor, lifting each other up, stomping feet and clapping hands.
Over time pints began to appear on the table in the snug in front
of us. I had successfully played for my supper but not actually
sung for it, so, in true drunken reasoning, I began to sing.

My voice sailing high into the air and
commanding the attention of all around.

The tune was more familiar now than ever.
What resembled G chords, C and D. In the order I knew. G,C,G,D! I
started the song singing and speeding the beat on the skin with
“Must it take a life for hateful eyes…” Now if you recognise these
opening words you’re a person of fine taste, if not you might be
considered just as lucky because you can now discover for the first
time the wonderful song that is `Drunken lullabies’ by `Flogging
Molly.’ The tune and rhythm always strike well with a drunken
crowd. The final lines shouted loud and proud are “Because we find
ourselves in the same old mess, singing drunken lullabies!” This
tavern was no different from the pubs and punk gigs in Belfast! The
revellers sang loud, danced in a mosh of spilt beer sweat and
laughter. This continued long into the night. Something magical
happened, that often does after copious amounts of alcohol and good
craic. My problems disappeared and were forgotten. For hours we
played, slowing and slowing. I didn’t know very many traditional
Irish songs, and would refuse to learn any rebel songs, so I sang
what I knew would translate to the timings and setting I was in,
`Shipping up to Boston’ by the Dropkick Murphys, `Wild Rover’ and
the old favourite `Whiskey in the Jar.’ I have to tell you now. It
was something else playing and singing these songs in a place they
had never been heard before! Why stop there? So I led some strange
traditional irish folk versions of Slipknot, Pantera, Nirvana,
Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in chains and I have to say, hearing
Slayer played on a bodhran is a thing of odd beauty. I felt like a
rock star. Maybe it was the sense of pride, or the adrenalin that
only musicians can understand, but most likely it was the booze.
The night drew to a close, most had stumbled home or at least to
somewhere to sleep. The barmaid and the man who was playing the
accordion were sweeping and cleaning the tavern floor. Lifting
tankards, wiping remains from the tables and sweeping under
afterwards. There was a collection of scraps, bread, chipped
potatoes, sausages and carrots put in a bowl and set in front of
Tessa, who made very short work of licking it clean. Then proceeded
to fall asleep once again under my chair. The last of us that
remained around table were telling stories of each other’s’ wives,
girlfriends and partners and laughing about people they knew around
the villages. I nodded and laughed when appropriate but was
sobering up at a quickening pace. The ale was thick but not as
strong as you would assume. I suppose this is how they sell more,
keep you drinking longer. It seems business and commerce prosper in
Northland too.

We continued to talk until the barmaid and
the man wearing the apron came and sat with us. During the
conversation I had picked up the names as the evening progressed.
Firstly there was the large burley fiddle player Boro. His jolly
manner infected everyone and his deep chesty laugh was so
contagious you couldn’t help but smile when entrapped in his aura.
Beside him was Twathan. The skinny tin whistle player, people
called him Twiggy for short though. An appropriate name if ever
there was one. The barman and the older man with the beard and the
apron was called Shaw, the barmaid was his daughter Bonnie. She was
married to a guardsman in the local prison and he had to work
several extra shifts, as many of the men from Renir had united with
Sáann's army to march south. Meaning those left behind had to work
double shifts to keep the prison guarded. In turn she had not seen
very much of him in the last few weeks and pined for her sweetheart
with every sentence. Once the act of flirty, easy and seductive
barmaid had been dropped, the true, vulnerable and real Bonnie was
visible. We spoke about the times and the regulars, who said what,
who had done what and with who for a while longer until
conversation had dried up. Along with our tankards. I had sobered
enough now to open my mind once more. The reality of my situation
came thundering back to me like a comet colliding with a mountain
face. The gravity of it all stunned me. I felt weak with worry and
dread. I needed to get on my feet and begin looking once more for
my better half. The one person in this world that gives me hope,
enjoyment, passion, deep unforgiving and unapologetic love.

“Thank you for such a truly warm welcome, a
superb evening and conversation to soothe one’s soul but I must ask
you all now to aid me with my true reason of being here.” I had
made my way to my feet. My legs felt a lot weaker than I had
expected. Like they had both decided to clock out for the evening,
leaving me to look like someone on stilts for the first time. The
lack of use over the past few hours and the copious amounts of
alcohol will tend to do that to your balance. I steadied myself
with the table, well more like propped myself up against it and
continued to address my fellow musicians and listeners.

“I am a traveller and new to Northland. I
have come from somewhere far from here. I am pursuing my wife who
has no knowledge of this place. We were separated and brought here
by what I can only describe as sorcery. I am familiar with the
eastern counties of Northland, but no knowledge of the west. I am
sure my wife travelled a similar road to me so I imagine she is in
these lands. I ask only that you listen to her likeness as I
describe her to you and recall if you have seen her?” I begged to
them and began do describe Sarah’s perfect, soft features. Her
light blue eyes with a dark ring around the colour part, that
pulled you in and forced you to fall in love with her, the moment
you looked into them. Her hair that was soft, long, blonde and fell
through your fingers like silk. Her hands so soft and kind that a
single touch of her skin felt as though it had the magic to heal
any ailment. Mental or physical. Her voice that could fascinate you
and hypnotise you when she spoke of anything. Her roman, goddess
physique, angelic face and shield maiden height. On description I
realised I had simply described the most perfect goddess to them. I
did not think they would believe me from this description alone but
it must have been the passion and longing in my voice. I was not
hopeful however by the expressions on their faces. Bonnie explained
that she recognised the faces of every person who dawned the doors
of the Rebel’s Rest but no one to this description had come this
far. After much discussion we reckoned that if she had been
summoned to Northland the same way as me, she must have come the
same direction. On knowledge that she is not the most sociable of
people she would most likely have avoided the inn and stuck to the
main road leading to Renir. I decided that both Tessa and I would
head to the city and try to follow in her footsteps.

“Chris my boy, before you go please
understand, Renir has a long history and it is a dangerous place.
Betrayal and murder runs like blood through the stones that built
the walls. You say you know much of Northland? Let me tell you the
history or Renir and its warm throne.”

Tessa jumped from the ground to my lap. Her
head resting on my shoulder and her eyes struggling to stay open
but slowly getting tighter and tighter until they eventually
close.

“I held a good rank among the greatest of this
world’s spirits, I bathed in the light of the King himself, and
often took seats in his company. I stood with them at every
occasion from the most official and regal, to the most mundane and
tedious.” Shaw began, proud and reminiscing as he spoke. He made no
eye contact but instead looked onward as he continued to speak.

“Now this was long before I put my time into
this place, the Rebel’s Rest was only a dream of mine at the time.
Anyway, as part of my duties as King’s guard I had been charged
with keeping a specific record of their doings quite like a
memorial, if you will. I kept parchments and scrolls of my
companion’s lives and triumphs. Some of them are here, behind the
bar in my quarters. This was under the personal order and
ordination of the great King Falair himself.

I’ve seen the truth with my very own eyes,
how his lady’s excellence is unparalleled and her beauty, second to
none; men would laugh and try to deny this simple truth. I must
implore you however, that you believe I have not, or would not,
powder my words, or bend to the weight of power and riches that
would seek to bury my truth under closely guarded dogma and throne
ordered propaganda. This would not happen. I speak to you now as a
simple man, an innkeeper, a free man, a man with marvels to share,
and to the ignorant or foreign, marvels to reveal.” Shaw continued
to stare forward, refusing to catch my gaze.